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JDJ Vulpeja
'Tis winter... mating season for Vulpas Vulpas. He paces over the moonlit snow...I cannot see his features clearly in the various shadows cast by the slow dance of the waxing and waning moons. The wind soughs in the wrong direction for me to identify of a certainty whether he is truly of my kind, though I suspect by certain cues, such as his cranium being slightly too large for the creature he seems to be, that he is such. If he is not the very same sort of creature as I, then he is close... close enough? Perhaps I was careless, for he espies me and moves towards me in what seems to be a playful manner. Wary, I quickly move away, and then meld with the shadows, going in a direction I am reasonably sure he will not expect, nor be able to pursue, though if he manages to do so, I will not be overly concerned. I have been pursued before, by many species, though seldom of my own kind to be sure. I know many ways to throw the hunter off my track. Luck and experience have allowed me to grow rather clever over what seems, at times, to be eons. Yet, I am interested, though I know my curiosity is a weakness at times. Eventually I circle back along his trail, and begin to investigate this... intruder? As have many others, he has left spoor on my territory along with markings indicative that he seeks something. New terrain? A mate? For a time, I backtrack his trail, seeking more messages on his path. I find fewer clues than I had expected. I may have missed one or more, perhaps some of the clues I search for have been lost in the slowly drifting snow, or obscured due to the predations of other creatures. However, the important thing is that he has left messages, markings. He is not in hiding, but rather he is obviously seeking…me? There have been many intruders upon my territory of late. A short time ago, being somewhat lonely, I left what I had thought to be a small token of that loneliness in the vicinity of the edge of my environment, much as a "true" animal leaves messages in its urine for another. I had not thought there would be much response, if any, for there were so many other communiqués at that location. I had supposed that my mark would be lost in such a mass of signs and had acted more in the spirit of wishful thinking than in true belief that what I was seeking through that symbolic gesture might actually be acted upon by the sort of entity which I sought to attract to me. I was dismayed at the number of responses, the forays into my domain, most of them crude, some openly hostile and I have usually driven them away. Remembered visions of trolls, goblins, ogres, orcs, half-orcs, grossly heavy humans, and sundry other ill-formed, ill-kempt, and often hostile creatures raise the hackles about my neck and down my spine. Many times I considered returning to that sigil and destroying it so as to cause those incursions into my domain by adventurers to cease. But a meager few of those venturing here have been… interesting, this one especially so. His scent is out of the ordinary. So much so that I have to remind myself that the most dangerous of those intruders were the ones who had been the least offensive to my senses. Facades are much to be feared. Against my better judgment, I return to the area where he last approached me and begin circling inward, cautiously. He has changed form, but the scent of him remains much the same and he has been here longer than I had first thought for he has built a small camp. I carefully circle 'round his campsite in the triadic moonlight, pausing now and then to watch, listen. I constantly test the ever shifting wind for more scents. I pause as I notice that a "true" fox peeks from under a snow-laden bush, inquisitive about this wayfarer, even as I. I recognize this particular fox by his tattered ear and I remember... It seemed the vixen had gnawed through her own leg. Her blood was all about her maw, matted also in the once silver fur of her chest. After tending to her, I looked to confirm the cause of her predicament. Tracking her bloody trail, I read the sequence in reverse, all too clearly. In the end, I could see the way of it. She, along with her tatter-eared mate, had circled a trap many times. Both sets of paw marks later to be clearly perceived by me in the snow. In my minds eye, I watched the slow and careful approach to the alien object. The pair of foxes sniffing the wind, pausing often, watching for movement or threat of any sort. Finally, she crouched; furry flourishes finely etching patterns into the powder. She paused long enough that some of the snow melted from her body heat, blurring the imprints of fur and paw, forming thin glistening glazes of ice after she left the spot. She probably nosed the trap at last. Nothing dangerous seemingly, though the steely scent and oil used upon it must have been alien indeed, but those scents had been obscured by more enticing ones. Intrigued, she investigated another way... the trap did what it had been made and placed to do. She did the only thing she could do in order to escape... Russet and silver tufts, bits of flesh, bone, all left in the trap. And red, red, arterial red, was the gore all about it, frozen in the deathly pale snow. As I wandered my domain cautiously searching for more of those deadly traps, finding and springing more than a few, I thought: ‘Palida Mors... ah, so many times thou hast left thy pallid mark upon mine own pale flesh... I do know thee all too well, Pale Death. Someday, thou shalt have me, but I shall continue to elude thy cold clutch as long as possible... another sort of Goddess willing...’ I return to the present and find myself focusing once more on the fox with the tattered ear: ‘Careful cousin…’ I think, ‘Remember the condition I found your mate in last year.’ The Reynard senses my voiceless warning, and backs away. There is the small whisper of snowdrops from the bush as russet and silver fades and vanishes into the umber and ultramarine shadings of the deepening night. My attention returns to the soft flickering glow of the stranger’s campsite. There are spells and wards about this place, many of which are of the sort that are intended to confuse the senses. They are poorly done, so I suspect this intruder is a novice at magic. I step closer... then crouch, and I feel my fur brush the snow, leaving fine flourishes in the powdered snow... I must have crawled forward because I find myself closer to the campsite, yet I still cannot make out any of the finer physical features of this male. I am suspicious of this lack of clear imagery. He has built a fire; there are scents upon the air that are familiar, and at least one that is somewhat strange to me. I watch as the silhouetted man picks up an instrument from among the paraphernalia spread about the campsite, metallic strings flash briefly in the light of the fire behind him. He seats himself upon a tripod stool and cradles the instrument for a moment, then runs a hand down to the strings as the other hand presses against the frets of its long neck. A melody, hesitant at first, flows through the chill night air. My ears prick towards that sound. Music? I love music... of nearly any kind... a fugue weaves through my memories... Bewildered, I am stranded between realities, virtually paralyzed, as the treacherous wind shifts once more. His head lifts from its gazing at the fire, and the music of his dulcimer slows. He is no longer in silhouette, and I can see a little of his face…I carefully back away and when I am in the shadows once more I turn and run, circuitously confusing my trail as I go. Selected for its difficulty to perceive by normal means because of it’s hidden nature due to tree and rock formations, my den would be hard to find by either ordinary senses or magic phenomena even had I not taken precautions against its discovery. When I near my lair, I slow and proceed most cautiously, for soon there will be traps that even I might be injured by. There are also spells and wards of my own setting. Though the outer perimeter of my most private domain is the least lethal. Here there are primarily small spells and wards of the sort that fool the possible intruder. ‘I forgot something’ is one of my favorite spells for protecting this area, one so subtle that the finest of magic users rarely realizes that it has been employed. It causes the entity to think that they need to return to their last place of sleeping in order to retrieve something of importance, and rarely causes a questioning of just what it was they have seemed to have forgotten. As I grow nearer to my hideout I pass many of my traps and note that none seem to have been disturbed. Nearing my home, I become invisible, just in case all is not as it seems, then testing the air I move towards its entrance. My fur fluffs with each contact of the barriers that would be lethal to any other entity than myself and when I pass through the last of those invisible walls it takes a few moments for the hairs to lie smooth again. I move to the niche that I normally use for sleeping, leap up, circle until the furs and silks are to my satisfaction and then I curl into them. I relax for a while, not quite dozing off, and allow the deeper recesses of my mind to consider the events of the last few hours. After a time I reach some conclusions and then I allow myself to sleep. I awake to the soft glow of the rising sun, it’s light dimmed by the clefts over the entrance to my den and the slight hindrance of the created barriers to that entrance. Hungry, I stretch and jump to the stone floor then trot over to an open crate. Selecting a reasonably fresh scrap of meat, I have a light breakfast and then move towards the back of my cave. There I squeeze through a small cleft and trot past columns of stalagmites. On the edge of a pile of guano, I add to the droppings of the restless bats nestled in the stalactites far above me and then return to the antechamber of my dwelling. I leap back to the cooling bed in the niche, but this time I do not curl up; instead I stretch out in the middle of those soft materials. I relax and begin the change. This metamorphosis can be quite painful and even dangerous if done in haste. But here in the safe privacy of my den I can allow myself the luxury of making the change gradually . I breathe deeply and slowly, allowing my mind to empty as much as I am capable of. I center my ‘self’ and my eyelids flutter slightly for a while and then the fluttering of my eyelids cease as my brain begins to enter the alpha state. Society teaches people that whatever we see with our eyes closed is not real, that everything seen then is a dream or hallucination. I know better, and I reach for archetypes through the spectrum of color. I am not totally away from my body, I can hear birds chirping outside the cavern, the leathery rustle of bats wings returning to the deeper chambers of my home, but I ignore those soft sounds and continue to cross the starlit path of the rainbow bridge. Mind is matter, and mind rules matter. In other realities the state I am in might be described as a form of biofeedback. The universe itself is a shapeshifter. Solid matter does not exist as it appears to the eyes of thinking entities. Beyond the smallest bits of matter, subatomic energy exhibits characteristics of both particles and waves, though not at the same time. Seemingly solid objects are abstract entities that appear and behave according to how we look at them. In other words they are only temporary condensations in a field, or energy swirls. I explore my body and begin to instruct its cells as to what I want of them and I begin to shift. I drift somewhere between pain and pleasure. I am in an indescribable state of ecstasy. The sensations that pulse over me are orgasmic. Finally, in only a few minutes although it has seemed far longer, I lie panting and sweating on the now damp bedding of the seemingly diminished niche. I stretch and bones, cartilages and muscles snap and pop softly into place. I raise an arm and gaze at my long fingers and nails. I roll slightly, prop myself up and look at my long cream and rose legs, curves that I have not seen since late fall. I realize that the furs and silks about me are filthy with dust, sweat and small tufts of the fur I have shed over the season. I rise and my hair cascades in a long russet cloak about my waist and legs. I remove a few scrolls from a metal casket on a rock shelf beside my sleeping niche, and using them carefully but quickly, I set invisible servants to cleaning the area where I have existed for so long. When I am satisfied that those unseen servants will do as I want yet not move beyond the boundaries defined by me, I move smoothly to a larger cleft opposite the one used by my favorite alternate self. Passing through it I descend over shelves of basalt covered with lime to a small sapphire pool dimly lit by a light from far above. There is a relatively small hole or fissure in the mountain over me. Near the pool is a large trunk of cedar and tarnished silver, its hinges well oiled, it makes no noise as I open it. I remove a flint and striker from a small inset tray. To the right of the trunk is an old tripartite mirror, seemingly of the sort that is often used by tailors and seamstresses in the more civilized parts of this world. Farther to the right of that mirror is a small dressing table and bench. Between each of these items is a candelabrum. I light the heavy candelabrums on each side of the mirror while I avoid looking into those reflective surfaces. I turn and replace the tools, then select two graceful bottles from the trunk and walking over to the water, I place them on the rim of the pool, along with a soft length of cloth. I return to the meager furnishings and then open the drawer of the small dressing table beside the mirror and lay out the equipment I will need to dress my hair and manicure my overly long nails. I remember the years of laborious shaping of the steps that I now use to descend into the water warmed by the volcanic action far below. My hair spreads in a fan about me as I lower myself into the liquid cradle. I reach for the fragranced soaps in the bottles and begin to bathe. When I rise out of that pool, I watch as foam and strands of hair and tufts of fur are slowly sucked into a small grate on the far end of the pool. My hair is plastered over my lithe form as I gather the soft material up from the edge of the water. After drying off I return to the dressing table and carefully begin to work through the remaining tangles in my long tresses. I yet avoid the tall mirrors and use a smaller one attached to the dresser as I begin to twist and braid my hair, small pins and combs affix those strands into an ornate silken helmet, and a fine net of woven gold is used when I am finished, so that only small areas of hair are free of restraints, though it is pulled away from around the elongated oval of my face. My manicure and pedicure take less time, for I am satisfied to just push back cuticles, clip the nails slightly, then file and buff them. From the small drawer of the table I remove and use oils, fine thin brushes and powders, and tend to my lips and eyes. Finally satisfied with the niceties of my grooming, I move to the open trunk and begin to dress and then arm myself. The last thing removed from the trunk is a white fur cloak. I at last turn to the tripartite mirror and gaze into it for a long while, cloak clutched and dangling in my left hand, the other hand resting on the hilt of my best sword. Suddenly I am softly laughing at myself. Unused for so long, my contralto cracks and echoes reverberatingly about these caverns as I finally speak: “Damned if I know whether I have prepared for a tryst or a tussle!” Leaving my den with its bustling servants is more complicated in the bipedal form than that of my four-legged shape. My boots plowing through the less drifted areas of snow, I make my way back to the encampment of that male intruder, careful to travel with my face to the wind. As I near the area I can hear once more the soft music of his dulcimer. I pause, listening for a few minutes, wondering if he has slept at all. I remove my gloves, though I leave the gauntlets upon my wrists, tuck them into my blouse and I continue my cautious approach. As I quietly near the edge of the trees, the music slows and then stops. Has he sensed my approach? I peer through branches of snow and needles… He is indeed looking in my direction, but from where I stand I cannot see him well, his features are indistinct. He sets the musical instrument aside and rises. He calls out: "M'Lady?” My long nails, talons, flex slightly and then my sinister hand fully opens and reaches without my thinking... and grasps air. I quickly regain control, my hand drops back to the hilt of my sword. I am confused by my responses to the attempts by this latest lycanthrope to contact me. I know more about this stranger than I did at first sight of him. Not enough, yet too much? He speaks again, and I "listen" most attentively, with all of my senses. When he says: "Please come out and play..." it is tempting, so very tempting and I do want so much for someone to ease my lonely heart. Too much. I throw back the edges of my cape in order to free my hands and expose my sheath. Unfortunately, I know that eventually the bravest adventuress can meet an opponent who is better trained and better armed... I have defended myself in battle and won many times, in many sorts of "realities" and I have more than one cicatrix to prove it. Some of those scars, faint or otherwise, are the result of encounters with obvious enemies; some are the result of trusting someone whom I should not have. Some wounds were inflected by the same person who professed to love me…those wounds may never really heal, however much they might scar over. He continues to speak sweetly to me as my dexter hand clutches the hilt of my sword, flexing on its silken cords. This sword was hard won from a Paladin. I nearly died from his last downward stroke as my own blade drove between the gap in his armor at the juncture between his torso and leg. When my bleeding hand removed the silvered blade from his limp and rapidly cooling fist, I gasped at its touch. It took special handling and reworking of the hilt for me to be able to use it eventually. It took even more for me to control this willful blade, but even its forceful strength of character yielded to the threat of being tossed down the maw of an active volcano. I have an attitude about being controlled by anyone or anything. Returning from my memories to the present, I draw this blade of magic and it hums for a moment. ‘Mistress?’ Asks the sword. ‘Be thou ready at my command.’ I answer. ‘Feeding time?’ It queries. ‘I am not sure…’ There is a wave of emotion from the thing as with my sinister hand I brush snow from the needles of a branch and carefully place the softly glowing sword upon that fir bough. I carefully unbuckle my baldric and hang it on yet another branch. During all of these preparations I have kept the man in the clearing at the edge of my vision and he has continued to stay in place while softly imploring me to come to him. The same speech with minor variations: “I will not harm you… Your message was old when I found it, though faded as it was I was not sure… I have sought you because I have heard of… your beauty…” There is an underlying falseness to his words, though it is faint and I know not where the lie is. If I go near him obviously unarmed would he believe me so foolish? Probably not, so I draw the dagger from my boot, turn it so that I am holding the blade by thumb and forefinger, pommel down. I then make sure that the hood of my white cloak is in place before I take a deep breath and with my empty hand bending the branches before me in his direction I stride forth from the protective trees. The released branches snap to and fro making a cloud of snow around and over me. My coloring against the snow is white on white on white. I know I am difficult to see in the glare of the noonday sun above me. He pauses in his speech as the thrumming of those branches subsides. In moments only the sighing breeze and the silly chirping of a sparrow break the sudden silence. Though his dark cloak is also thrown back from his empty dexter hand, the hunter green material drapes over the sinister one. He wears a light helmet of leather dyed to match his cloak and long strands of his chestnut hair are gracefully undulating in the currents of the air. I think to myself that he is attempting to look me over as carefully as I am observing him. Finally he speaks once more as he gestures somewhat awkwardly with his free hand towards a stump near his campfire: “Won’t you join me? I have hot lemongrass tea laced with honey.” I slowly begin to move towards him, my boots making light crunching sounds in the snow. I pause across from his campfire when I can see his facial features clearly. I am reasonably certain that my hooded cloak with its heavy fur has most of my face concealed in shadow, though my lips and chin may be clearly defined in this light. He glances at my dagger, then back in the direction of my lips, which I realize I am licking nervously. I cease my licking and concentrate on my sense of smell. The odors here are nigh overpowering. There is but little smoke from the banked fire, but the scent of burnt wood is thick in the air. There is the scent of the lemongrass tea, along with the hint of honey. I cannot get a lock on his personal odor. The dieing wind is in his direction so that may be why, but he is close enough that even over those other scents I should be able to identify his pheromones and it bothers me that I cannot do so. He is telling me of events he has experienced in route to my domain. I am slightly amused, for his tone is that of feeling that he has faced great difficulties and danger, and the events seem trivial to me. He is obviously younger than I, as I had suspected at once when first he had sought my hiding places, though not as young as I had first thought. Not an impossible hurdle from my viewpoint, I retain much of my youth. But from his viewpoint...? His features are softly handsome. His eyes are hazel with heavy brows that grow together across the bridge of his well-formed nose. His skin is sun darkened to a deep bronze, cheekbones somewhat rosy, from the cold perhaps. His lips are red. Too red. Somewhat lean, though it is difficult to be sure because of the studded armor and cloak he is wearing. And he is very tall, well over a head taller than I even though my boots have at least an inch of thick heel on them. Once more he breaks the uncomfortable silence that strangers so often know: “M’Lady, my name is Anisim. Are you indeed the one I seek? Vulpeja? As I said before, your message was old, faded, and…” I barely register his words; it is his emotion that I am reacting to. "...nor could I find any simulation of your visage in that area." Once more his speech finally stumbles to a halt. There is another uncomfortable pause. Somehow, he has sensed at least a part of my reactions to him? There are two white ceramic cups on a flat rock and a dark metal pot nearly inside the circle of stones around his campfire. Cautiously, he bends towards the fire and with the hand I can see, he removes the steaming pot from the rock and pours an ochre colored liquid into each of the cups, paying more attention to me than to the liquid, some of it sloshes onto the rock. He sets the pot back on the rock, lifts one of the cups and offers it to me. “Um, you really don’t need that throwing knife.” When I fail to reach across the fire for the cup, he places the cup back where it was before and then gestures towards the stump near the campfire. “Please…” I do not move, but I clear my throat. It has been so long since I have conversed with a biped that I had nearly forgotten that I should be responding to his vocal overtures. “You have said that you seek me, though you have not stated your purpose in doing so.” He flushes an even darker rosy bronze. “Your message was that you teach people with an ability, though it was vague as to the exact ability. Also that…well, you are lonely for…companionship? The scent was so faint by the time I stumbled across it, there was but the sense of femininity and…a hint of something that attracted me in…well, um, a manner that was not… studious.” I must get closer. I must get a whiff of him. I begin to edge around the campfire, counter to the side where the proffered stump is. As I do so, I reach with my free hand and pull back the hood to my cloak. His brows raise, he pales a little, and then flushes again. He smiles a wry smile and snorts a strangled laugh while tossing his head back. I pause. “Sorry,” He says: “I am not sure what I expected…” He moves tentatively toward me, and I watch the area of his cloak that covers that hidden hand. He sees the direction of my gaze and using the hand that is within my sight, he pushes the cloak back from that hidden limb. Both hands are empty. He raises them toward me, palms up, then with his sinister hand he slowly reaches for the knife in my suddenly lax hand while saying: “You don’t really need that between us.” I do not prevent him from taking that weapon and laying it upon the rock that holds the pot and cups. When he straightens back up, he once more raises his hands towards me in invitation, and I hesitantly move into his embrace. He gently puts his arms around me, his head bends to my face and his lips seek mine. His scent is not quite right, but close, so close. I reach up and put my arms around his neck, my fingers caress his long hair at the nape of his neck and then move gently towards his ears. He kisses me as if I were the most precious female that he has ever known. His kiss is both innocent and sensuous, and I am lost in it for an eon. His grip on me finally begins to tighten and I am brought back to the realities of this situation, I remember my suspicions and start to back away. He inch by inch releases me unwillingly, even as he commences an attempt to reassure me: “Have I been too forward?” I think: ‘Might he be too dangerous? I know that scent from somewhere, what is he?’ Physically, emotionally, in past times, this Hart has been wounded... As I gradually, reluctantly move away, I murmur that perhaps I should travel to his home, get to know him on his territory. He grows agitated and argues that his people might not accept me. I say that what they think will be of no consequence to me. He contends that I would be too dependent upon him, that if we do not successfully mate that I might be without means of supporting myself. I protest that I am more than capable of taking care of myself. With each exchange he grows more heated and I become more distressed. As I edge away, he follows, his words arguing for separation while his actions are those of aggressive pursuit. As I begin to pivot my side to him, unsure as to whether I should run or go into stance, he starts to yell that he wants to stay on my territory while learning what I have to teach. The wind is picking up, and it shifts direction so that it blows from him to me. His odor has changed drastically; it is suddenly distinct and strong. It is wrong! Very wrong! Along with the attractive masculine scent of him there is mixed the heat of his emotions, both in the air and in my empathic mind, but the thing that causes me to panic is the overpowering base stench of what he is deep in the core of his soul and body. I raise my arms defensively, cross them over my face. I cry out as he begins to shift. He awkwardly lunges at me even as he alters and rakes his claws along the gauntlet I raise in defense. His angry words have become a howl as his quick and painful shift makes his body clumsy in its next leap for me. A clawed distorted hand pummels my left pauldron as I brace myself in stance and with my arms shielding my face I cry out: “To me! Werebutcher! Come! Feed!” The hilt of that glowing blade slams eagerly into my dexter defensive hand. My dexter arm swings down diagonally… I step slowly through the barriers. When I am sure that I am safe in that chill and dim grotto, I drop the bloody white cloak near the entrance and an invisible servant begins to clean off the bloodstains from the Artic fox fur. I dump the chestnut pelt in the open crate. I can scrape, cure and tan it later. It will make an excellent cloak. I put the engorged sword in a rack near my niche. I strip myself of my odiferous bloody accoutrements, dropping them to the basalt floor of my den where more silent unseen servants swoop to pick them up and cleanse them. I head for the pool… I shift swiftly and somewhat painfully as I return to the antechamber. It is a kind of self-hate, self-punishment I suppose, that transition without care to my comfort. My last gesture as a distorted biped is to dispel the servants, they have finished cleaning and polishing the entire area and its contents. I trot to my sleeping niche and leap up to the furs and silks there. I circle and then lie down, curling my tail over my nose. To my surprise, I begin to weep as Plato’s shadows dance on the rough, cold, uncaring walls of the cave that surrounds me. For those of you who are not familiar with medieval terms or outdated ways of speech: Sinister is used today as meaning "evil". However, that is because the use of the left hand was considered "wrong" and was punished in children so as to "encourage" them to use their right hand instead. Sinister also meant / means a direction. The sinister hand or direction ... means the left hand, or to turn left. Dexter: The "correct" or right hand. It is also a direction, to turn right. Vulpeja – 08-23-00 by: Jeanie D'Jinni First posted on Prodigy on a Fan site for Baldurs Gate in the year 2000 Fan Site was Attic of the D'Jinni. Jeanie D'Jinni was the Hostess of that site at the time. Jeanie D'Jinni - Diagonally parked in your Parallel Universe... And now, as a Were Doe, I leap away... Vulpeja warily watches the wily Were wandering where wild woods wax in winter white...whallah! Diagonally parked in your Parallel Universe... And now, as a Were Doe, I leap away... Vulpeja warily watches the wily Were wandering where wild woods wax in winter white...whallah!